


hope

by llien



Series: Though I did what I thought I had to do, I still lost you [1]
Category: Kingdom Hearts (Video Games)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Character Study, Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, or what constant suffering does to the pysche ft vanitas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:40:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25003282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llien/pseuds/llien
Summary: It had to be worth it.He had to believe that.
Series: Though I did what I thought I had to do, I still lost you [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1525478
Comments: 3
Kudos: 67





	hope

**Author's Note:**

> "My heart is made of just one thing. And the Unversed collected enough screams and sadness from those children to reconstruct it."
> 
> Set vaguely during BBS.

There came a point when everything seemed to matter less. When the question of a goal, of an endgame, became defined by worthiness. Was the  _ now  _ less important than  _ then,  _ was it  _ worth  _ the present, if the future was beyond his control?

At what point did it cease to matter, did the immediate supercede ‘what could be?’ 

He felt himself at the edge of this point, toeing the craggly delineation between standing and falling, the thin precipice crumbling beneath his weight. And if it broke and he fell, what then? What waited him in the depths of ennui, of apathy, of death of the self?

If he stepped forward of his own accord, was there a difference there? Between helplessly falling and determinedly plummeting — would he be judged differently, would the choice strike a line in-between, as a whip into flesh would?

Was he lesser, if he gave up? Stronger, to see that it was meaningless? Was lingering longer than he should at this point, breath held as the earth crackled and rumbled beneath his heavy weight, a choice, too? If he toyed with the ideology, the philosophy, would that be judged as choice, as flirting with the inevitable? 

Or was indecision held in kinder hands? 

It was a temptation, venomous, charismatic, enticing with its questions. It slithered around his mind, his self, held him tight like no other. In the long hours of night, in the empty stretches of day, in the moments where there was no need for him, forgotten like any good pawn, these questions echoed in his mind. And he played with them like the creatures of the wasteland he resided in, a place not to call home but that he existed in.

And he hated this desert. It was a cruel, unforgiving place to existence. He could be like the weed, rooting deep into the barren dirt, forcing cracks to appear to tolerate his being, and still he could be summarily wiped out, killed, replaced with sand and baked land, and nothing to speak of himself. He couldn’t scar this land, he couldn’t see himself there when he left. He disappeared, ceased to exist, and there was nothing to say  _ I live. _

‘Life,’ similarly, was a word he hated. He didn’t know if he counted as something living. He was just an amalgamation of all things horrible. He was there to be the shadow, the darkness. He was meant for suffering, defined by it, made up of it, cast in the shape and mold of one beloved, as if to further mock him. 

Even his name wasn’t his. He was everything nasty and hated, scraped out with metal forceps and spoons and anything sharp enough to rip him clean out, a tainted writing mess covered in tears and lacerated by pain. 

So he was born, so he was destined. His history was his future was his life was his very reason of being, because this was not living. He knew living. Tucked between the memories of every beating and every hateful thing, between the feelings of  _ worthlessness  _ and  _ loneliness  _ was the opposite.

He couldn’t remember them, not quite. He wasn’t given that, except for in flashes to further cast what the contrast was in sharp relief. He couldn’t know suffering unless he knew what happiness was, after all.

But it was too kind to have left the genuine memories with him, to find solace in when he was curled up and dragging the jagged remnants of himself together. All he had was the tiny relief of them in the spaces between. The negative space and shape of them was enough to trace with shy fingers, as if it might be snatched away.

If this was loneliness, then surely the opposite was  _ fulfillment. _

If this was pain, then its absence must mean  _ peace. _

If this was hatred, then its alternative must be equally all-consuming.

The concepts were foreign to him, but he could imagine them, and it bred a hunger so deep he felt ravished, felt so empty he couldn’t stand it. 

And rattling around and around and around until he felt sick with it, was the question of  _ was it worth it? _

Was knowing the absence enough to justify the desire for it?

Was enduring all of this worth it for a promise so nebulous, he had to scratch it into the very being of himself to remind himself it was real, it was said, it was  _ there  _ he just had to keep reaching for it?

Sometimes, he felt awe. Not for himself, but of himself. What better way to subject someone to the most absolute darkness, than to leave them with the shyest glimpses of light? He could not remember the sight of the light, but he could remember the burn in his eyes, and what he would have killed just to experience it again.

So he stepped back from the line. Dirt would crumble at his movement. Each time he approached the  _ point,  _ he lingered longer. Each time he fought another guardian, as he gorged himself on negativity to repair the damage, he grew closer to the edge. And each time he remembered what could’ve been the shadow of happiness, he felt such despair, it just seemed wiser to call it quits before he had to endure another moment of this, to take that step and  _ plunge—descend—fall into— _

But promises, memories, hunger all stayed his step, and he tried, again, to strive for that answer to all his wishes. And he didn’t know what to call  _ this,  _ because the name of it, too, had been taken from him, but maybe it was another curse to burden him in its shackles, because it was all he had left, all that kept him from crossing that line. It made him try.

And it had to be worth it. 

He had to believe that. 


End file.
